Two Loves I Have of Comfort and Despair
by comewhatmay.x
Summary: Blair Waldorf had two loves; one of comfort, the other despair. The greatest tragedy had always been that she could never succumb to comfort of one without the infliction of despair from the other. Pre-series CB.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE

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**AN: A splash of pre-series, a dab of Victrola, conceivably some season three… **

**Title from Shakespeare's Sonnet 144. Thanks go out to bethaboo, my delightful beta.

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Blair Waldorf had two loves; one of comfort, the other despair.

The greatest tragedy had always been that she could never succumb to the comfort of one without the infliction of despair from the other.

So it never really should've surprised her when she yielded to the comfort of Chuck Bass in the back of a limo. Moments after she had stepped onto a burlesque stage and given the most risqué performance of her life, no less.

It never should've surprised her that Nate could bring about such despair, from sleeping with her best friend to using her to secure a deal between their parents.

It had always been this way; Nate's unintentional infliction of anguish would eventually lead to Blair seeking consolation in his best friend.

And one night, the tables turned. Inexplicably, Blair found herself in the back of a moving vehicle, succumbing to the devil himself.

And that night, the comfort went too far.

Without any grounding explanation or reasonable rationalization, Blair Waldorf found herself falling for Chuck Bass.

That in itself was dangerous. That much she knew. He was dangerous in the purest sense, a combustible flurry of hidden emotions and lewd remarks. One day, it would destroy them, destroy her.

She didn't care.

And so she loved him as fiercely as she possibly could. It consumed her; it ran through her veins like the purest heroin.

She was absolutely _intoxicated_ by him.

She knew the same feelings rang true for him. Chuck Bass didn't have a way with emotions, but he had a way with _actions_. And those actions spoke volumes.

Actions that had left her sobbing in a golden dress, tearing the straps off, and partaking in scalding hot showers that burned away the physical reminders of _Jack_, but could never cleanse her mind of the memories.

The tables turned once more, and Blair fell harder than before, because when you loved one as fiercely as she loved Chuck, they also had the ability to inflict the harshest form of betrayal.

The solace she sought in Nate's arms was never the same as the sympathy she had found in Chuck's.

And that was when she realized, her two loves of comfort and despair had never been as such.

Blair Waldorf had only one love, of both comfort and despair.

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tbc


	2. I Guess One Angel in Another's Hell

**AN: Hugs, kisses, and L'Occitane shampoo to wash your Riedel glasses with, to all the wonderful reviewers and alerters. This next chapter is longer than the prologue, but I will say, this story is more of a collection of interconnected one-shots that culminate in one event (Victrola, anyone?), and lead to Blair's realization that her two loves are not two, but one. Therefore, the chapters don't really flow, per se, but do focus specifically on an event in Blair's life where she has sought 'comfort' from Chuck. **

**Thanks to the fabulous bethaboo for betaing. Chapter title is also from Shakespeare's Sonnet 144**

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_Fall 2006_

"_Serena!" Blair called into the penthouse, her eyes sparkling with laughter and her voice carrying a hint of annoyance. "I've been texting you all day. It's five o'clock in the evening, you aren't still be hungover?"_

_Blair paused at the foot of the steps, looking around with a frown as silence greeted her words. Serena had been avoiding her the past few days, with nary a text message, and short, one-worded answers that concluded brief phone conversations._

"_S?" she called out tentatively, and continued up the steps, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor._

_Pausing slightly at Serena's door, Blair caught sight of her bracelet, a delicate band of silver, punctuated with two intertwined hearts._

_A giddy, almost excited, smile lit up her face, and she rushed into her best friend's room without a knock._

_An empty room greeted her, and the lack of clutter that defined Serena's room told her something was wrong._

"_S?" Blair said quietly, spinning in a slow circle as she took in the already made bed, and the open door of the closet, of which a bare space could be seen._

_Something was wrong._

_Blair reached for her cell phone, dialed the familiar number with ease, fingers shaking slightly as she collapsed onto her best friend's perfectly made bed._

"_The number you have called could not be reached at this time. Please hang up and try…"_

_The message replayed itself in her head, the same message she had heard all day. The woman's nasal intonation could be recalled with perfect clarity in her mind._

_The elevator dinged, and an almost abstract fear gripped her, a fear she couldn't quite understand as she flew back down the stairs, her previous excitement returning slowly. Nate had come to the Waldorf penthouse that morning, bearing croissants and gifts, a slight smile on his face as Blair threw her arms around him._

_He had been oddly quiet, but she had been more than happy to fill the empty spaces with her gushing over the bracelet, her thoughts on the Shepard wedding that had occurred the past weekend, and her father's increasingly distant behavior._

_Now that she thought about it, Nate had been abnormally distant as well. Blair was used to Nate's PMS moods, as Chuck used to dub them, but this was something new. Nate's brooding silences didn't usually carry on for such a long time, and he had been more prone to mood swings as of late._

_She pushed the thoughts out of her head as she bounded down the last few steps, only to be greeted by a slightly disheveled Lily van der Woodsen._

"_Blair?" Lily said in surprise, taking in the young girl. "Why—"_

"_Where's Serena?" Blair asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice. "I've been calling her all afternoon."_

"_She didn't tell you?" Lily asked, incredulous. _

_A thousand situations ran through Blair's head. Her best friend was hurt. Her best friend was in the hospital. She was—_

"_Serena's gone," Lily said quietly. Gently, as if she knew the pain her words could cause._

"_Gone?" Blair echoed, her self-control slipping through her fingers. "What do you mean gone?"_

"_She's decided to spend sophomore year at a boarding school in Connecticut," Lily explained with slight confusion, "Blair didn't you—"_

"_No." Blair said tonelessly. _

"_Serena never said a thing," Blair continued, willing herself to blink back the tears that had begun to pool in her eyes. "She's supposed to be my best friend."_

…

Her fingers were wet with her tears, slipping and sliding on the metal keypad of her phone.

She had been crying a lot lately, for reasons that were unfamiliar to her.

This recent flood of tears, however, had been brought on by a recent Gossip Girl post, one that ignited fears and insecurities she had attempted to keep buried.

She sent two different texts to two different boys. Both were replies, one text came before the other, and the replies were as different as the boys themselves.

The first text was the right question-asked by the wrong boy. It came a whole two minutes after the Gossip Girl blast, and twenty-six minutes earlier than the second text.

It was simple, almost careless in its aloofness. But Blair knew that was not the case, knew that those few words carried more emotion than any other text.

_R u okay? -C_

The first text sat unanswered until the second text arrived. This one was longer, and one might say that more thought and care had been put into the words—but she knew that this too wasn't the case.

_Saw GG blast. Wher is she? R u still coming to dinner tonite? Mom will understand if u want to cancel. Luv u -N_

She sent two replies to two different boys. You would never have guessed they were from the same person.

The first reply was laconic, short and to the point. The second was longer, but it was a lie.

_No-B_

_I don't know where S is. I'll c u at 8 tonight. Love you-B_

The first boy's reply was immediate once again, although she had waited twenty-nine minutes before replying. The second boy took a little longer once more.

_I'm here if you need me. –C_

_8 R Tea Room then. C u. Luv u -N_

…

He wasn't surprised. It was just like Serena to run, after all that had transpired between her and her best friend's boyfriend.

It made him sick.

And he didn't understand why. His young, still unassuming mind couldn't understand _why_ he felt that way. Why he felt the insatiable need to tell Blair, to prove to her that her white Prince of a boyfriend wasn't as devoted as one might think. Or why the urge to protect her seemed far stronger, almost instinctual in its nature.

The text he had sent her had been sent of its own volition, three words that reeked of worry he liked to claim he did not possess.

He and Blair had always had an understanding, to say in the least.

Chuck knew that Blair turned to him to fulfill a role Nathaniel never could—her partner in crime.

His rise to that position had been slow, so gradual that neither of them noticed it till it was too late.

If Blair was a Queen, and Nate her King, Chuck was the advisor behind Nate, being the true ruling power of Constance & St. Jude's hierarchy. Nate was nothing but a figurehead. A puppet with which Chuck controlled from his hidden seat of power. Nothing went on without his knowledge, and he and Blair held their peers in the palm of their hands.

There were schemes, orchestrated by the both of them then divulged to Nate and Serena, who only served as pawns in their complex game of chess. A game so convoluted it no longer represented chess, but a battlefield.

They changed sides as often as they gave proclamations to the masses—nearly every other day.

Sometimes it was the age-old boys versus girls, where they would pull Nate and Serena into their game. Sometimes it was the two more responsible, less carefree individuals against the wilder, blithe characters of Serena and Chuck.

But for the most part, it was Chuck and Blair against the world. Chuck knew this, though he dared not acknowledge it aloud. Not in a world where Blair, the society darling, was practically betrothed to Nate, the White Knight. Chuck and Serena were meant to drink their cares away, on the sidelines of Nate and Blair's love story. But in an unexplainable sense, Chuck had always found him and Blair united without Nate.

She could think—hat he liked about her. Her mind drew up schemes he himself couldn't think up, or would often fill in a missing gap in his plan.

She would come to him, eyes wickedly bright, a sinisterly sweet smile on her ruby lips as she tilted her brunette curls, blinking innocently while asking for help.

They stayed up until three in the morning, once, all to form a plan to dismiss an unworthy interloper from their ranks.

An off-the-rack plebian, Blair had called her. And Chuck had laughed at her distaste, reveling in the slight blush that crept up her cheeks.

Embroiled in their elaborate scheme—one which included a masquerade, champagne, and some artfully sewn additions to a dress—they hadn't noticed the minutes passing by on the antique clock, nor the incessant buzzing of their respective phones.

Blair had bitten her lip, worried that Dorota wouldn't think too kindly of her coming back so late, and Chuck had invited her to stay over, his smile lascivious.

Once setting out a list of rules and policies—he was not to be anywhere near her, and the wall of pillows she had constructed was to remain intact—Blair had shyly accepted his oversized shirt, slipping into the bathroom to change.

Despite her own rules otherwise, Blair had knocked aside a few of the decorative pillows in her restless sleep, waking up Chuck a mere hour after they had fallen asleep.

Glancing tiredly at the clock, Chuck had attempted to fall back asleep, only to find that his mind was too full of thoughts, spinning dreams and wishes, for him to sleep.

Instead, he reached out to remove a pillow from in front of him, one of the last that remained between them.

She was pale in the moonlight; her long lashes throwing half circle shadows on her porcelain cheeks.

Chuck had frowned to himself then, because the only word that came to mind was _beautiful_, and his fourteen year old self didn't believe in such things.

Scolding himself mentally for thinking such things about his best friend's girl, Chuck had turned on his side, squeezed his eyes shut, and attempted sleep once more.

The memory of that night came to him as he looked at his phone contemplatively, wondering if he was willing it to ring simply because of curiosity, or if he felt concern—an utterly foreign concept to him—for _Blair._

…

He knew he should have felt guilty.

But the problem was, Nate couldn't regret what had come to pass. He knew he was doing something wrong; knew he was supposed to play the part of adoring boyfriend, not cheating bastard.

There was just _something_ about Serena that rendered her completely different from Blair. The way she allowed herself to traverse effortlessly through life, as if responsibilities were nothing but a buzzing fly in her ear.

That quality, the carefree nature that was quintessentially Serena, was what drew him towards her, like a moth to a willing flame.

That day at the bar, Serena's navy blue eyes had filled with tears, telling him they had made a mistake.

"I didn't think it was a mistake," Nate had said shyly, but Serena only continued to fix her dress, her hair, and her shoes.

It didn't matter how many times she smoothed her hands over her wrinkled skirt. What they had done was clear.

"This can't happen again," Serena said apologetically. "Blair's my best friend. You're her boyfriend."

"I—"

But she had turned from him then, never looking over her shoulder once as she walked away, her shoulders trembling from repressed tears.

And Nate had been forced to return to the party, to avoid Blair's questions and sit there dumbly, only nodding when required.

Serena had ignored him for the past few days, until he was forced to face what he had done. The bracelet was meant to be an apologetic gift to Blair, though she only took it as a token of his supposed love.

"Nate?" He heard his mother's lilting voice, the hint of irritation that it carried. "Are you ready? The car's waiting."

Nate took one last look at the Gossip Girl blast, the one that featured a bright red question mark over Serena's yearbook picture, her navy blue eyes twinkling mischievously at him. The headline read: MISSING, THE UES' IT GIRL.

"I don't think I'm feeling well," he coughed for effect, and then heard Anne's grumble of disapproval.

"Nate," Anne seethed quietly, "you know how important this dinner is to your father."

"We had practice in the rain yesterday," Nate grappled for a reason as he shed his blazer and tie, "I think I must have caught something."

He heard another sigh, this one from just outside his bedroom door, and Nate knew that Anne would never enter the room. She avoided Nate's bedroom at all costs, the stench of pot and lacrosse gear too overwhelming for her delicate tastes.

"I'll tell your father," Anne said grudgingly. "Make sure you call Blair and let her know you're not attending."

He waited until he heard the click of heels against polished hardwood, then the resounding slam of the front door.

Sending a quick text to Blair, Nate shrugged on a navy blue coat, the one that Serena had laughing joked matched his eyes.

Throwing a few necessities into his lacrosse bag, he hurried out into the late summer rain, determination in his steps.

…

The dinner left her feeling hollow and empty.

It was not entirely due to the fact that Nate had sent her a short text that merely said, _Sick, can't make it-N_.

It was not entirely due to the fact that her father had also bailed, leaving her to sit awkwardly with the Captain, Anne, and a seething Eleanor.

It was most likely due to the fact that she had slid from the red leather banquettes with a polite excuse twice during the course of their meal.

Each time she had stood in front of the gilded mirror after doing…_that_, and eaten five altoids, she had promised herself she would stop.

Eleanor had cited work issues, running off to her atelier at ten o'clock at night, telling Blair to take the car home.

Instead, she gave a different address to the driver.

Serena had disappeared, and Nate was acting strange, and there was really only one person she could turn to.

"The Palace," she told the driver, pulling out her phone to send a quick text.

…

"Blair?"

She peeked around him timidly, ready to shield her eyes at the sight of—

"There's no one else here," Chuck told her, amusement clear in his voice. His coat was on, and he looked as if he were—

"Are you leaving?" Blair asked, attempting to keep her crestfallen expression at bay.

"I was," Chuck said, his eyes roving over her unreadable expression. "Blair, why are you here?"

"I sent you a text," Blair explained briefly, turning to leave.

"That isn't a reason," Chuck observed, reaching out to grab her elbow. "B, why are you here?"

As Chuck regarded her with quiet curiosity, Blair found all her grievances with her life tumble out of her in one sentence that hardly made sense, but was apparently understood by Chuck.

"Serena left, and she didn't tell _anyone_, not even me or Nate, who's acting weird, and has mood swings worse than my mother, who's even more distant than usual, no surprise there, but Daddy's been coming home late, he won't even sit with us for dinner anymore, and I _know_ something's going on, but no one will tell me, not even Dorota, who made me eat waffles for breakfast, and you know how much I hate waff—"

"Alright," Chuck cut in, his voice calm as he ushered Blair into his suite, "your life isn't a storybook, that's news."

Blair shot him a cutting, venomous look, and then proceeded to make her way over to the bar, where an empty shot glass and an open bottle of vodka stood waiting.

"Whoa, B," Chuck said, taken aback as Blair grabbed the bottle and took a lengthy swig, only wincing slightly.

"You said you were there for me," Blair reminded him, and Chuck looked slightly ashamed at his words being brought up, "well, I say tonight we forget."

She held the bottle out to him, an expectant, challenging look in the set of her features.

And Chuck Bass was never one to turn down a challenge.

So he smirked shrugged out of his coat, and took the barstool next to her.

"What was that about Nate's mood swings?"

…

An hour later, it was safe to say that Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass had passed tipsy long ago, and were currently sitting on the floor of the suite, backs to the couch as they passed a near empty bottle between the two of them.

Blair had long since shed her shoes and coat, and the strap of her dress kept falling down a pale shoulder, until she finally gave up on it, allowing it to stay where it was.

"So what really happened with Nathaniel?"

Chuck knew the conversation, much less the question, would be but a shadowy memory in the morning, simply washed away with black coffee and scalding showers.

It's why he had the bravery to ask the question.

The liquor helped some, he supposed.

"He didn't show up," Blair lamented, the liquor apparently having no effect on her quiet words.

"He hasn't shown up before," Chuck pointed out. It was true, that Nate had never been the most reliable, nor the most punctual.

"This is different," Blair sighed. "Serena's disappeared too."

"I saw the Gossip Girl blast," Chuck said, and they both heard the underlying subtext in his words.

"I know," is Blair's quiet, almost timid, acknowledgement.

"You don't know where she is?" Chuck furrowed his brow, his mind struggling to grasp onto a specific memory, a specific tryst he was not to have seen.

"I do," Blair said with a short, barking laugh. "She's in Connecticut. Boarding school. Lily told me."

"She didn't say anything to you?" He was surprised, in the least. Serena had been Blair's best friend—though he was sure she wasn't to hold the title for long once her and Nate's transgressions are discovered.

Another wry laugh.

"No. She was avoiding me, too. She and Nate were both so…distant."

Chuck knew the reason why, but he held his tongue. He knew the information would destroy Blair, more so than being played a fool by her not-so-Charming Prince.

"I'm sorry," he offered, and heard Blair's reply of an unladylike snort.

"You're not. Nate was probably stoned this entire week, and that's your fault."

"My fault?"

"Every bad habit anyone of us has can be traced back to you, Chuck."

"Really," he murmured, turning to rest his chin in the palm of his hand, a comically look of rapt attention playing across his features, "and what's your bad habit?"

Blair captured her bottom lip between her teeth, and Chuck smirked in response, because knowing that her uneasiness stemmed from him gave him an odd sort of satisfaction.

"I don't know," Blair lifted a shoulder, the one with the black silk strap that kept sliding down, "I suppose you're my bad habit."

"Me?" his voice has lowered to a sensuous rasp, and Blair shivers slightly, though refusing to be drawn in by his charms.

Blair sighed once more, and then closed one eye, squinting to the bottom of the bottle she held.

"All out!" she declared, then, deciding their conversation quite banal without the mask of alcohol, stood up to make her way to the bar.

Only the alcohol seemed to have more of an effect on her tiny, ninety-five pound figure than before, and Blair somehow managed to stumble gracefully onto the couch.

Chuck laughed at her antics, but found her face suddenly uncomfortable close to his, as Blair raised her head wearily and declared the trek to the bar too troublesome.

"Nate doesn't deserve you," he whispered.

Because she was close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of hazel in her dark brown eyes, and the long lashes that framed them fluttered closed in response.

He knew she wouldn't remember a thing.

"And I suppose you do?" Blair mumbled back, her words half incomprehensible, due to the curtain of chocolate curls that now fell over her face.

Chuck sighed, before standing up slowly, knowing that Blair would not remember the conversation, but would certainly murder him in his sleep if he allowed her to sleep on the couch.

"Come on, B." He tugged an unwilling Blair from her comfortable position, mentally attempting to calculate the effort it would take to get her from the living room to the bedroom.

"I don't want to sleep in your bed, Chuck," Blair half-whined, "it's probably host to more than a few diseases."

Chuck smirked. Even while inebriated, Blair Waldorf knew how to disperse proper insults.

"We drank from the same bottle," Chuck reminded her, "anything I've got, you've got too."

"Ew."

The response was so unlike Blair Waldorf that in spite of himself, he smiled.

…

Blair woke up with the taste of stale vodka in her mouth, and an arm thrown around her waist.

Refraining from retching into the plush carpet, Blair rushed into the adjoining bathroom, making it barely in time to spew the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

Dragging the back of her hand across her mouth, Blair wrinkled her nose in distaste, quickly rinsing her mouth and washing her hands.

Once she had turned off the tap, her hangover finally hit her fully, and she leaned her forehead against the doorframe, refusing to give in to her pounding headache.

Flashes of the previous night ran through her mind like butterflies emerging from a chrysalis. New, and fluttering glimpses, gone before she could grasp them properly.

She just hoped she hadn't divulged too much while in Chuck's company. Revealing a secret to Chuck Bass was akin to dancing with the devil himself.

…

Thirty minutes later, Blair found herself cogent enough to leave, her headache reduced to a dull pounding, though the state of her hair could not be remedied, despite her numerous attempts.

She paused at the door uncertainly, eyes roving over an almost equally weary Chuck Bass.

"Thank you," she said, her lips forming the words as if they were utterly foreign. "For last night," she clarified.

"Anytime, Waldorf," Chuck replied easily, "it was my pleasure."

Blair rolled her eyes at his words, knowing that Chuck would never have tried anything with her while she was inebriated. She knew, that in some odd way, Chuck had a certain respect for her; one no other girl they knew had received.

Blair turned on her phone as she waited for the elevator, wondering, _hoping_, that there would be a text, perhaps a missed call—nothing. Not from Nate, at least.

Blair shut her phone with a snap, uninterested in Dorota's texts. She would deal with them later.

It shouldn't have surprised her that Nate would disappear himself, and then leave her to her own devices. She wouldn't have been surprised if Nate hadn't even noticed her foray into suite 1812.

But as she stepped into the elevator, grateful that it was empty, Blair allowed herself a small smile.

If she didn't have Nate, at the very least, she would have Chuck.

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tbc


	3. To Win Me Soon to Hell, My Female Evil

**AN: Apologies for the long wait, and I promise that Recollection is coming soon. Am just waiting to get it back from my fantabulous beta, bethaboo, who also beta-d this for me. Love you, B! And to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favorited...thank you! Enjoy.

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_Winter 2006_

There was an almost calm atmosphere when one purged. The feeling of emptiness, of utter completion, was thrilling and calming and horrifying all at once, and if that wasn't a contradiction, Blair didn't know what was.

She set her phone down beside her clutch as she leaned towards the mirror, inspecting her skin for signs of imperfection.

The loud buzzing echoed along the tiled walls, and Blair hurriedly grabbed her phone, praying that no one had heard.

Two texts buzz in simultaneously, and a third one only seconds later.

_Blair, where are you? You gave Mrs. McInery quite a scare by jumping up and rushing out. Get back here now. _

_Mom's asking wher u r. She wants a pic for nyt. Where r u? - N_

The last one was short, poignant, and utterly heartbreaking.

_Don't do this to urself B. Ur perfect. –C_

_Wardrobe malfctn_ she texted to the first two, _be back soon- B_

She doesn't bother answering the last one. She doesn't know what to say.

…

Blair's teased Nate for his pot habit before. Perhaps teased was the wrong word. _Chastised_ would be more appropriate.

She's reprimanded Serena for one too many late nights and making out with investment bankers at PJ Clarke's. And on more than one occasion, Blair's turned up her nose at Chuck's various vices. Women, alcohol, various drugs, and indulgent escapes beyond their wildest dreams.

If Blair was virtue, Chuck was vice.

(Nate and Serena are somewhere in between. Perhaps skewed closer to Chuck's side of the spectrum.)

Problem was, Blair was right up along with the rest of them in terms of vices. She had her own, if secret, habit she just couldn't shake.

What made it so completely damaging wasn't the vice itself, but the way she depended on it. The way she found herself mentally calculating the calories she consumed on a daily basis, each macaron and petit four she consumed weighing heavily in her stomach.

The bathroom was a welcome release—a short respite in when she could sit back on her heels and feel complete. But the encompassing shame and regret that followed soon after would fling her into the deepest trenches of her own despair. And so, she would gorge herself on another box of delight, stuff herself until hers stomach felt full to bursting and tears trailed their way down her cheeks. It was a cycle that never ceased to stop; a cycle that she had tried to break out of desperation, out of fear.

She had always been unsuccessful.

…

Blair avoided Per Se. It was a favorite of the Captain's, and many dinners had been held there, invitations extended gracefully to the Waldorfs.

The Archibalds had already all but integrated her into their inner circle; Anne and the Captain already indirectly referring to Blair as family. Blair was to become an Archibald one day; it was simply accepted among their group.

There had been one occasion, the summer before freshman year, where Serena had accompanied them to Per Se, as she was staying at the Waldorf's while her mother jetted off on yet another honeymoon.

_The two girls had dressed up in front of Blair's vanity, giggling and applying cherry-flavored lipgloss. While Blair had opted for the demure cream dress her mother had picked, Serena chose an almost indecently cut rose-colored dress, one that Blair had never been able to pull off._

_Anne looked on disapprovingly, but Eleanor beamed, lavishing the blonde with compliments while Blair sat back in her seat, forgotten._

"_You know," Eleanor was saying, "Blair was never able to properly pull off that dress. You should give it to Serena, Blair."_

_Her cheeks had burned, but Blair smiled stiffly and nodded her assent. "Of course. It looks stunning on you, S."_

_Serena's thank-yous and giggles attracted glances from other patrons of the restaurant, all of whom smiled indulgently at the sight of the laughing blonde._

_Blair, seething, turned away from the spectacle and towards Nate, sure that he wouldn't be paying attention to Serena._

_She had been wrong._

_Nate was just as enamored as everyone else, his eyes locked on Serena's effervescent smile and shimmering blonde locks._

_Tears sprung to her eyes, but Blair blinked them away quickly, focusing on the setting sun, the sienna and copper painting strokes of light across over the treetops of Central Park._

_She could only stare at the sunset for so long, and Blair was soon pulled away from her reverie by the dish set in front of her._

_Without thinking, Blair dug her dish, Oysters and Pearls, one which she had formerly despised._

_Her voracious appetite continued throughout the entire meal, from the forest mushroom ravioli to the bluefin tuna—the flavors dulled and utterly bland, chased with hearty gulps of red wine._

_Her behavior had gone quite unnoticed by Nate and Serena, though they were the closest to her, they were trapped in their own world of perfection. However, Eleanor had not granted her the same luxury._

"_Blair," she hissed over the table, "smaller bites. Follow Serena's example. Do you want to burst out of that dress? And stop gulping down your wine. People are beginning to stare."_

_Her cheeks burned once more, but Blair met her mother with a defiant look, shoving another too-large spoonful into her mouth and picking up her wine glass._

"_Blair," Eleanor warned, her voice dangerously low, "stop."_

_Nate and Serena finally realized that they were not, in fact, the only patrons at the table, and both turned towards the mother-daughter pair, twinned curiosity plain in their blue eyes._

_Lifting her chin imperiously, Blair pushed her chair back, and stood with a polite excuse, one that failed to please Eleanor._

_Her steps were clipped as she made her way to the bathroom, the alcohol throwing the slightest of wobbles into her rebellious march._

_The bathroom itself was a welcome refuge. But as Blair collapsed onto a velvet settee, shoulders shaking, hot tears tracking down her perfectly made up face, she found the silence unsettling._

_The silence allowed for thoughts; thoughts led to realizations; and the realizations had not been welcome._

_Never enough. She had never been enough._

_The thoughts swirled in her head as she stumbled forward, her bare knees hitting the marble with a deafening crack._

_Tears continued to rain down her cheeks, over the bridge of her nose and the bow of her cherry red lips._

_Almost experimentally, Blair reached her index finger to the back of her throat, wondering if—_

_Her throat seized, and Blair pitched forward, coughing and gasping for air. No. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Serena had whispered to Blair about the things her older, infinitely cooler, model friends had taught her. The ones who smoked Gauloises and wore brands like Erdem and Issa. _

"_They said it keeps them perfect," Serena had whispered between Blair's silken sheets. "That's how everyone stays so skinny."_

_There wasn't a doubt in Blair's mind that Serena had never intended for the information to be taken to heart, but it had stuck with Blair for a while._

_The image of perfection, however unattainable, had stuck with Blair for a while._

_But it had remained buried until this moment, kneeling on the bathroom floor, tears flowing relentlessly, her index finger coated with her own saliva._

_Determined, Blair jammed her finger down her throat once more, now anticipating the seizing of her throat, the coughing that followed._

_Obstinately, Blair continued the same actions, the same repeated movements that eventually led to her stomach seizing as well, forcing up her entire dinner into the porcelain bowl._

_Blair was just grateful for private bathrooms as she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing her lipgloss._

_Satisfied, she flushed the toilet, washed her hands—twice—, dabbed away her tears, and reapplied her lipgloss._

_She was smiling when she returned to the table, and for the rest of the meal, she had no more than two bites of each course, including the poached apples—her favorite._

_The proud smile on the edges of her lips remained._

However, the next time the Captain and Anne had invited the Waldorfs to Per Se, sans Serena, Blair had not been prepared.

She had been unprepared for the deluge of memories that bombarded her as soon as she set foot in the restroom—to touch up her lipgloss once more.

Blair hadn't done _it_, since, but being there, the same vanilla-cinnamon scent masking a stronger, crisp lemon, flooded her subconscious with unwanted images.

Blair avoided the restroom for the remainder of their dinner, and for every one that followed after, she came up with inventive excuses.

The second time she purged, it was in a restroom at Nobu, and the sake afterwards had removed all traces of evidence.

The third time, she hardly had to think.

After that, she lost count. Only reasons remained behind, each time blurring into one another, until they were fused into an incomprehensible jumble of emotions and tears, petty words and sneering smiles.

Waldof penthouse—_too many petit fours._

Butter—_Nate was too busy fawning over Serena to notice Blair shoveling her foie gras into her mouth with incredible speed._

East Hamptons estate—_Eleanor's once-over of Blair in Serena's skimpy two-piece was enough._

Le Pain Quotidien—_Nate had invited Serena along for their after-school coffee and pistachio tart tradition._

Archibalds' townhouse_—her dress was too small._

Blue Ribbon Sushi—_Nate didn't even bother to show up._

Yet, to this day, she still avoided Per Se.

…

Something was wrong.

Blair used to have no qualms in meeting Constance Billard's strict physical education requirements. The school touted a state-of-the-art fitness room, and generously sized gymnasium that they shared with St. Jude's—all a part of their 'physical education' initiative. One that had been funded by their parents' deep pockets and despised by nearly every student.

These girls, Blair knew, preferred to keep their size zero figures in other ways, frowning down upon any sort of physical activity. Particularly when there were the boys of St. Jude's present.

But Ms. Queller had enforced the four-times-a-week physical education classes with exacting measures, going so far to threaten expulsion.

Blair had perfected the art of looking as though she were pushing herself to the point of exhaustion—while still looking pristine, of course. She had even managed to keep up with Serena-amazon-long-legs-van-der-Woodsen during the weekly track runs.

But lately, Blair found herself making ridiculous excuses to skip class, coming up with make-believe calamities that were only half-truths.

She had attempted a class earlier this week, not wanting to arouse suspicion. But within the first few minutes of her usual warm-up jog, she had found herself gasping for air, clutching the black rubber handles of the treadmill as she fought to remain standing upright.

"B?"

Is looked over from touching up her lipgloss—Is spent about forty percent of her time on the treadmill admiring herself in the mirrors, fifty percent of her time chatting to Kati, and ten percent of her time barely breaking a light jog.

"I'm fine," she spat out, but the venom in her voice fell flat as drew in another few deep, rattling breaths.

Taking another few deep, calming breaths, Blair steeled herself and continued on, only to find her vision tunneling out, the edges blurring as her breathing grew labored. It was a struggle to right herself after that, and this time Kati joined Is in exclaiming worriedly over Blair's weakened state.

By this time, Coach Spalding had approached the trio, shooing away Blair's minions, and asking if Blair had recovered from her bout of the flu.

Weakly shaking her head, Blair had asked for leave of the day's class, perhaps to lie down in the Nurse's office for a while.

The older woman had nodded, her eyes raking over Blair's emaciated appearance, having seen the symptoms the girl was currently exhibiting, more than once before.

It was almost a cliché, the number of times she had seen the warning signs in these perfectly coiffed, filthy rich children of CEOs and hedge-fund owners. And the number of times she had seen these signs always maintained the same ratio as to the times she would speak up. It simply wasn't done, an unspoken rule in Constance Billard's hallowed halls.

And so Coach Spalding smiled tightly and waved the girl on, deciding to focus her attentions on a lagging sophomore instead.

She didn't notice the way Blair could barely made her way back to the change rooms—the way her knees shook and she gasped for breath, though she was no longer running.

Instead of going to the nurse as she had suggested, Blair had opted for a quick forty-minute massage at Bliss. By the end of her session, her headache had worsened, but the dizziness was barely detectable.

She chalked the headache up to the looming AP Chemistry test—one she later passed with ease—and the dizziness to the cold.

Blair had presented a note from her physician to Coach Spalding today, not wanting to risk another embarrassing episode in class. It wouldn't do for a Queen to faint in front of her subjects, after all.

As it usually did when her mind grew bored, her thoughts turned towards Serena. Serena, who had left without a word. Serena, who had exactly sixty-one e-mails from Blair, all of which went unanswered. Blair wondered what her best friend—_ex_-best friend, she mentally corrected herself—was doing at the moment.

"She's probably recovering from last night's hangover and wondering where her shoes ended up," Blair decided out loud, before checking quickly to make sure she was alone. Finding herself quite alone as she continued out the courtyard, destination unclear, her mind continued in its curious daydream.

"Or, she's asking her Literature teacher why we can't spell _favorite_ with a 'u'," Blair mused, allowing a small smile at the memory. "Then again, this is S. She's probably bemoaning her third F of the year to—"

At this, Blair stopped in her outward thinking, the pang in her heart deeper than she remembered. Sharper, almost. As if time had not dulled the pain, only fostered its growth. As if remembering Serena after months of trying to purge the memory of the blonde, effervescent, indecisive girl only made her disappearance all the more painful.

Because Serena had always lamented her bad grades to _Blair_, while the girls lounged on the steps of the Met, Blair's paper, with it's bright red _A+_ tucked safely in her books.

Blair would suggest _studying_, a concept Serena would pretend to be mystified about, and the two girls would dissolve in fits of giggles. When Kati and Is arrived, lattes in hand, they only shot the two girls a look of confusion, before shrugging it off, and sitting a step below.

The top step of Blair's dominion on the Met steps was oddly lonely without Serena. At first, the blonde's insistence on sitting on the same step as Blair—she clearly didn't understand hierarchy—had annoyed Blair, who had gone to lengths to snub Serena for the first week. As it was now, it felt as if she were missing half of the equation, oddly separated from the rest of her group. She was now the only one worthy enough to perch on the top step—she didn't have to share the spotlight with Serena.

Only now, Blair wasn't quite sure if she _wanted_ the spotlight to herself.

So lost in her own thoughts, Blair found herself walking aimlessly down the street, the wintry New York air barely a bother, until she found herself surrounded by an indistinguishable scent.

"Waldorf," she scrunched up her nose as she took in Chuck Bass, signature scarf and all, smoking just outside the walls of St. Jude's. Of the herbal persuasion, as expected.

"Bass," she sneered back, and Chuck laughed at her as she drew back from the proffered joint.

"Blair Waldorf, skipping class?"

"I'm sick," she told him imperiously, throwing in a cough for good measure.

Chuck raised an eyebrow, falling into step with her, "You were never good at acting, Waldorf. Besides, isn't this your gym period?"

Off Blair's questioning look, Chuck smirked, and realization dawned on her as clear as day—"Of course. You're Chuck Bass."

"And Chuck Bass knows exactly when to skip Trig to make the trek to Constance," Chuck finished with a nonchalant shrug, ignoring Blair's look of distaste.

The next half of the walk consisted of the sound of the passing cars, Blair's black velvet flats against grey pavement, and nary a sound between the two.

"You've been skipping gym lately."

It was a passing comment, said lightly, but with more weight behind it than Blair could hope to comprehend.

"I've been sick," she defended, but her excuse fell flat.

"You seemed perfectly fine last Friday," Chuck pointed out. "Or maybe that was the alcohol."

Blair frowned at the memory, though she remembered that Nate had saved her that night—though Chuck had apparently been the one to call Nate in the first place.

"I saw you," Chuck admitted, "in the bathroom," he clarified quickly.

"You were imagining things," Blair brushed his comment off easily, though her stomach had begun to twist into knots.

"You downed those Blavod shots, not me."

"You're Chuck Bass," Blair said offhandedly. "You probably had half a bottle of scotch without realizing it."

"I know what I heard, Waldorf."

"It's not your job to take care of me," Blair spat out fiercely, turning on one heel to glare at Chuck. "I can take care of myself."

"And a damn good job you're doing of it, if you're ruining your perfect attendance by skipping gym," Chuck shot back, perhaps harsher than he had intended.

"I'm fine," Blair said stiffly, "just getting over a cold."

"Like hell you are," Chuck said, throwing up his hands in frustration. "How am I the only one who knows about what you do behind closed doors, Blair? Does your mother not notice? Nate? I wouldn't be surprised, his head's been elsewhere since he randomly disappeared for four days and came back disoriented."

"He went to visit his grandfather in Maine," Blair said through gritted teeth, though she knew that the excuse was flimsy. Nate's driver had told them Connecticut had been the destination—and a small, minuscule part of Blair knew that a certain blue-eyed blonde had been the cause of Nate's sudden disappearance—Blair just refused to believe it.

"You just keep telling yourself that," Chuck said with a roll of her eyes. "Speaking of things you tell yourself, what do you tell yourself that could drive you to get down on your knees—and no, I don't mean in _that_ way, Waldorf."

"Unlike your perverse mind, I wasn't thinking that," Blair snapped. "And for your information, I _don't_."

"Don't what?" Chuck pushed, eyes glittering dangerously. "Don't make yourself throw up or don't give bl—"

"_Neither_," Blair said firmly, but Chuck saw past the lie.

"You don't need to keep doing this to yourself," he said quietly, surprised by his sudden change in tact. "You know you're perfect already."

"No, I don't," she admitted, in a voice so quiet, so tragic that something in Chuck's chest stirred, and he had the sudden urge to reach out and embrace her, to comfort her.

It was an odd feeling indeed.

But before he had a chance to act on any such feelings, Blair had turned and walked away briskly, clearly ending their conversation.

Chuck wasn't sure what kept him from going after her.

…

"Serena, pick up," Nate murmured into his phone.

The trip to Connecticut had been a waste—upon arriving in the city Nate realized that he had no clue where to start.

The list of boarding schools he had drawn up for himself was long, to say in the least. And Nate hadn't thought that it would be _quite _this difficult.

Frowning at the piece of paper in front of him, he directed his driver towards a hotel instead—at the very least, he could phone every school and ask if a Serena van der Woodsen was enrolled.

The problem with that strategy—even after he had found the school Serena was enrolled in (after hours of phone calls)—was that Nate still didn't have a clue about what he would do when he found her.

He had settled for attempting to visit Serena. But even that didn't work, and after the ninth failed attempt, gave up, leaving another note with the receptionist.

And now, Nate had resorted to calling Serena every now and then—whenever his mind thought to think of her.

Which was too often. And Nate knew, in the back of his head, that this was wrong. He was calling his girlfriend's best friend after she had run away, because they had done something so inherently wrong that even _Serena van der Woodsen_ felt guilty.

He knew what this was doing to Blair, too. Perhaps not the full extent of the damage he inflicted, but he knew this was hurting Blair as well.

He just didn't know how he could stop.

…

In hindsight, Blair probably shouldn't have had the extra slice of cheesecake Kati had bought for her.

Because upon finishing said cheesecake, she found herself in the bathroom, finger down her throat, tears beginning their relentless journey down her mascara-streaked cheeks.

It was _exhausting_, pretending to pretend everything was perfectly fine when she was crumbling inside. But pretending was too heavily ingrained, nearly second nature in Blair Waldorf. It was a habit—a reflex embedded within her very core—and it came too easily to be pushed away.

Yet at the same time, it was draining. It was the feeling of everything else being two steps ahead of her, leaving you to struggle to claw her way out of the hole she had dug.

Above it all, Blair hated being a cliché. She hated falling into someone else's patterns—following trends set out by dozens of society Princesses before her. She hated knowing she was a statistic, another tally to a list of bulimic teenage girls. _Bulimia_ was such an ugly word as well. She never let herself use it—in relation to her, or anyone else. It didn't flow nicely, it didn't curl around her tongue, nor did it sound euphonious in any way. It was crude, almost brusque in a way. But it was a habit she couldn't shake. It was an addiction she had promised herself to gain control of—an addiction that proved difficult to conquer. For the short, brief, period of time between the purge and the guilt, there came a moment of glorious respite.

For a moment, the hard, cold, marble below her bare knees, and the faint burning sensation in her throat fell away. There was only a welcome wave of relaxing calm, of being in control once more.

Then the full impact of her actions would hit her, and the guilt would spiral and tunnel into her very heart, until the emotion consumed her entirely.

It was the same cycle, every time. And this time was no different as she washed her hands. Once, twice, _thrice_, just to ensure that no remaining scent lingered. The travel toothpaste and toothbrush she carried with her at all times was used thrice as well, until her gums nearly bled with the force of the brush against sensitive gums.

But her hands were clean, smelling faintly of vanilla and amber; her teeth were gleaming, her breath reeking strongly of peppermint.

Reapplying her signature red lipstick, Blair ensured that any and all mascara smudges had been removed—that her hair had remained in place, and that she wore no signs of her previous _activities._

When she exited the bathroom, she was flawless.

But it didn't keep her from noticing the look of reproach, of disappointment, and pity, from Chuck Bass.

Lifting her chin in the air and grasping onto Nate's hand tightly, Blair only smiled coldly at him.

Her phone beeped, and Blair refused to look at the message until later that night, the heat on full blast, curled up under three silk duvets.

Her teeth still chattered, and her shivers proved unyielding under cashmere blankets.

The text read:

_Ur still perfect even when ur falling apart._

The tears didn't stop till sleep finally found her, some hours later.

* * *

tbc


End file.
